


Fly

by Cannibal_Cake



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Relationship, ends with fluff, tw: Mentions of Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-03 21:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14005329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannibal_Cake/pseuds/Cannibal_Cake
Summary: Quentin has had one too many silent breakdowns  for Eliot's sanity.





	Fly

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I'm totally avoiding my WIP, _Beauty of All Life_. This story idea came to me in the form of a set picture I saw of Hale and Josh doing the very thing I describe at the end.

Sun-dappled shapes move slowly across the mosaic and the silvery motes that never seem to cease are as constant as ever that afternoon--and Eliot is doing all the work. All right, so that’s not entirely true. Quentin is sitting at the edge, next to the stacked piles of tiles, and he has been handing whichever color is required to Eliot, but El can’t help but feel like Q isn’t altogether there. There’s a certain listlessness to his actions and sometimes it takes two or three repetitions of his name to reclaim Quentin’s attention from the middle distance.

After a few hours of this Eliot sighs and leans back on his haunches. “Let’s take a break,” he says. Quentin doesn’t respond. So, Eliot stands and takes the one or two steps required to tower over his friend. It isn’t until now, when he’s blocking Quentin’s sun, that he gets a reaction out of him.

“Sorry. What?” Quentin says. Eliot lowers his hand down to him and Q looks at it like he doesn’t understand what Eliot wants him to do with it.

He wiggles his fingers at him. “C’mon. Up. We need a breather.” Quentin gets it then and sticks his hand in his. Eliot pulls him to his feet with only a small grunt and leads him over to the table. “Sit down, Q. I’ll go find us something to drink.”

“Sure...whatever.” Quentin sinks slowly into his chair and begins staring at nothing again. That was when Eliot knows that this isn’t just one of Quentin’s ADD moments. They were approaching the full-grown depression zone. Like the kind that, if not nipped in the bud quickly, could lead to a near-catatonic Quentin. Sometimes, even early intervention didn’t help and he just had to be there for him and coax water and food into him at regular intervals until Eliot could pull him out onto the other side. Not for the first time, he wishes that Fillory had SSRIs. Hell, he could use some too if he's being honest. The day-in-day-out futility of working on the mosaic to reveal the  _ beauty of all life _ (whatever the fuck that was) would take its toll on even the most stalwart of psyches. And Eliot is far from the most emotionally stable person in any world and in any time.

He spends a few more moments studying Quentin. He had drawn his legs up to his chest and is resting his chin on his knees. He stares at nothing. His hair has come partially down from the rough ponytail he wears it in and it obscures the side of his face closest to Eliot.

Time to change tactics. Maybe getting Quentin loose on alcohol is not the correct course this time. He squats down next to Q and tries to look through the curtain of hair. He reaches up to tuck the hair behind his ear and Quentin reacts to this a bit differently. Q leans into the touch like a cat and closes his eyes. Curious. But still, he says nothing.

Hand still cupping Q’s face he rubs his thumb across the other man’s cheek bone. “Q? I want to make a deal with you.”

Silence.

“Because when you get like this, it scares me.” It is true. There are few things that make him feel as powerless as seeing someone he lov--cares for in the kind of pain he feels he can do nothing about. Much more of this and Eliot worries that he'll just give up and dive down into the depression well with his friend.

Quentin darts his eyes to Eliot's and then away. He licks his dry lips. “What kind of deal?”

“We can't go on like this much longer,” he says and takes a breath. “There are certain things we can change and others that we can’t.--We can't change how fucking awful this quest is. We can't change how long it's going to take us to solve it.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“Do you want to quit?” Eliot asked. Quentin looked confused. “Because we can walk away right now. Forget this quest and find something else to do. I mean, we've got magic. We can do whatever we want.”

Quentin shifts his eyes down to look at Eliot. “Are you serious?” He sounded almost eager.

Eliot came up to sit on the arm of the chair and pulled Quentin in to his side. “If that's the only way to keep you sane...Then, yes.” Eliot only realizes how much he means that as he says it. He rocks back a bit, shocked.

There's a heavy pause. He really would do it. Just say, “screw it,” to the whole quest and run off into the sunset with Q... if that's what his friend wanted. It scares him a little. He wonders if Q is thinking this through too. He must be. The statement wasn't subtle.

Quentin huffs out a breath, almost angrily. “No. We're the only ones who can do this, I think.” Eliot feels a rush of relief. Just because he'd be willing to leave it all behind for Quentin didn't mean that he wouldn't feel massively guilty abandoning all their friends, not to mention their kingdom. But this didn't change the fact that Quentin's downward spirals needed to be dealt with.

“All right,” Eliot answers, gently rubbing circles on Quentin's back. “Then we need to promise each other something.”

Quentin shifts in the chair. “What?”

“We're going to take care of each other,” he said. He very pointedly doesn't look at Quentin when he says the next part. “That means that you can't shut down on me anymore. You have to talk to me when your brain starts to break down.”

“But, El--” It comes out as a near whine, full of frustration.

“Look, I'm not asking for you to never break down,” he said. “I know that's not possible. And there's no way I can judge you for that. Believe me.” He thinks of how spectacularly he went down after Mike. If he had let Margo in it may have gone a lot better. What was worse, he now fully realized how much it had hurt her to not be let in at the time. “I'm asking you to  _ talk _ to me. Let me know whatever the hell is going on inside that head of yours. We can try to talk it through.”

“What's going on in my head doesn't always make sense.” Quentin gestured to his brow. “It's a goddamn mess in here.”

“I don't care. Talk to me anyway. That's the deal.” He held his breath for a moment before adding the next part. “You agree to it or this quest is over.”

Quentin stiffened and then leapt from the chair, nearly sending Eliot toppling off the arm. Eliot rolled with it though and came to stand tall before Quentin. “You can't unilaterally decide that!” The smaller man chopped a line through the air with his hand. “What gives you the right?!”

Eliot could have met Quentin's anger with his own. He could certainly feel it bubbling beneath the surface. But he knew it was just a smokescreen for the fear he was feeling about losing Quentin. That he'd wake up one morning to find that Q had disappeared, or worse, just slit his wrists and had done with it.

“Because I'm  _ scared,”  _ he admitted. “I'm scared that you'll just check out for good one day! And where will that leave me, Quentin? Did you ever think of that? If you leave me behind, what will I do? I can never go back. We're stuck here until we solve that  _ fucking _ mosaic or until we die.”

The air crackles between them. Eliot can read the shock, anger and denial flitting back and forth over Quentin's features. He lets him go through them. He wants Quentin to finally realize that . . . Jesus, is he just realizing this too? He feels like a fool. Eliot is lost without Quentin. Quentin: Who always believes in him. Who always pushes him to be better. Who is constantly trying to save everyone but won't let himself be saved . . . Quentin needs to realize what he means to him.

_ Please get it. Please understand. _

He reads it in Quentin's body language, first, the moment that he gives in. His tense posture relaxes and he bows his head. Without looking up he holds his arms forward, a silent beckoning for Eliot to come to him. Eliot feels his heart swelling into his throat and relief wash through him as he steps into Q’s arms. The other man grips tightly onto the back of Eliot's vest and Eliot cradles Q’s head to his chest and bends down to bury his nose in his hair.

“You win. Asshole,” Quentin says, the words muffled. Eliot chuckles and pulls back just a bit.

“Damn straight, I do.” They both laugh, the tension finally breaking. “C’mon. Now we drink while you spill your guts.”

 

* * *

 

The afternoon wears on as they sit around, drinking and talking, the mosaic all but forgotten for the day. “I miss my dad the most on days like this,” Quentin says as he passes the wineskin back to Eliot. “Or maybe I just miss being a kid who believed that his dad could make everything better.”

Eliot takes a long pull and lays the skin aside. “Wish I knew what that was like,” he said.

“You'd really like him, El. He wasn't perfect but he was always there.” A small laugh bubbled out of Quentin. “He used to do this thing whenever I got into a funk.”

It made Eliot smile to see Q smiling and animated again. “What did he do?”

“He'd make me fly? I'm not really sure how to explain it.” Q flailed his hands around for a bit, searching for the words before dropping them to his lap again. “I guess I have to show you.” And with that he fell back onto the ground, sending his arms and legs up over his torso like an overturned table or a dog playing dead.

Eliot giggled. “What the fuck are you doing, Q?”

Q sounds excited in nearly the same way he used to when talking about Fillory. “He'd lay back in the yard like this and say, 'It’s lift-off time, Curly Q’. And then I'd jump into the air and his arms and legs would catch me and I'd feel like I was flying.” He releases his arms and legs. They fall like cut strings on a marionette doll and he flips over onto his side to grin up at Eliot. “It was silly, but it made me happy.”

Eliot dusts himself off and stands. He walks a few steps off until he finds a more open space of turf without the litter of tiles and such.

“Umm, w-what are you doing?” Quentin asks, sitting up to watch Eliot go. Eliot doesn't reply immediately as he sheds his vest, folds it and lays it on the table. He then rolls up his sleeves and flops down onto to ground. A second later his arms and legs raise themselves up into the air.

“Time to fly, Q.” Eliot tried very hard not laugh but the look on Quentin's face is too much. A mixture of ' _ what the fuck’ _ and pure joy suffuses his features. “C'mon. This is a limited time offer. My legs are already starting to go numb.”

Quentin gets to his feet, now laughing. “We're going to break something,” he says but he's still coming over, which is good.

“We are in the prime of our lives,” he says, deadpan. “Now get over here and let me fucking fly you.”

“You said your legs are going numb, El.” He grabs Eliot's feet and brings them together and down to rest on his waist.

Eliot does a half crunch to grasp Quentin’s outstretched arms. They thread their fingers together for better grip. “Dramatic exaggeration to get you over here  _ quicker _ .” On the last word he pulls them backwards and he can feel Quentin pushing off the ground. Their combined effort causes Quentin to rise up until he is suspended above Eliot. Sunlight filters through the trees and it almost looks like a halo around Quentin. And he looks so giddy and happy, it makes the slight tremor Eliot can feel in his arms worth it.

“Oh, my god! Eliot, I'm going to fall on you,” Quentin says in between shaking laughter.

He can feel a smile stretching his cheeks and he tries not to laugh too. “If you don't stop giggling you will.”

“But I'm  _ flying _ !” Quentin yells and surges forward knocking them off balance.

“Shit!” Eliot has to roll to the side to avoid being crushed. He only partially succeeds, Quentin's torso and face landing in the grass but his legs become entangled with Eliot's.

Eliot scrambles to untangle them. “Q, you all right?” he asks, worry creeping in. That was quite the face-plant. Quentin's shoulders shake and before Eliot can worry that he's crying in pain he lifts his head. It's filthy with grass and dirt but he's clearly choking on his own laughter.

“That was--that was  _ awesome! _ ” he says and rolls over onto his back, panting.

Eliot rolls over too, completely spent. “Jesus. You scared me. Who's the asshole now?”

“Sorry, I was in the moment,” he says, not sounding the least bit repentant.

He shakes his head, of course ready to forgive Q anything as long as he stays this way a while longer. “Feeling better, are we?”

Quentin rolls on his side to face him and his face is totally relaxed and maybe a little in awe. “Absolutely.”


End file.
